From glass asylum Royal Albert reigns
grandiloquent, declaring, “Here are twelve
of everything — no cracks or chips or stains
or missing cups!” Yet I refuse to shelve,
in fawning deference, the earthenware
I use from day to day, from year to year
to hold my offerings of hearty fare.
These plates, like humble servants, staid, austere,
in kitchen commonwealth have seen and heard
it all; they often speak the plain, uncouth,
the unembellished, simple, homely word
to satisfy an appetite for truth.
Till kingdom come the grand seigneur may huff
at my insurgence. Frou-frou’s not enough.